by Andrea Kane
“What theory?” Bob asked.
“That Sloane’s inside knowledge of Penelope Truman could result in a lead that the police and FBI missed, and that the Unsub is freaked out about that. Let’s say he kidnapped Penelope a year ago. He feels safe at this point, like he’s gotten away with it. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, the victim’s family retains Sloane—an ex–FBI agent, and a close childhood friend of the victim’s—to investigate their daughter’s disappearance. That would explain his harassing Sloane and sticking to her like glue. And that’s just part of the motive—the impersonal part. There’s more. There’s a pattern here, with Sloane at the center.”
“Before we go there, tell me one thing,” Sloane interceded. “Where does Cynthia Alexander fit into this idea you have that all these kidnappings tie back to me? I never even met the girl.”
“True.” Sergeant Erwin slid the file toward her. “But if Derek’s right, you wouldn’t have to. There’s more than one way for a perp to see a link between his victim and the person he’s linking her to. In the case of Cynthia Alexander, I’d say it’s a likeness to you rather than a relationship. You yourself noticed it. Cynthia sounds a lot like you must have been as a college kid. Same interests, same varsity athlete, same captain of the swim team, same wholesome, hardworking student. Plus, she’s from Cleveland, where you just left, and she’s enrolled at John Jay, where you just lectured.”
“That’s quite a reach.”
“Not if this wacko is fixated on you, it’s not,” Derek stated flatly. He turned to Bob. “I think Sloane represents more than a threat to this guy. I think he’s obsessed with her. I’m just not sure if it’s an idealization obsession or a homicidal obsession. That’s why we need to establish a profile on him. The BAU will help. But the more information we can give them, the better. We have to delve into every disappearance in the tristate area over the past few years that shares a common pattern, however vague, with these three cases. And we have to get as many details as possible from the one person we know has had contact with the Unsub.” He met Bob’s gaze head-on. “Which brings me to my other request.”
“You want to be present when I interview Tina Carroll.”
“Yes.”
“I anticipated that one.” Bob pushed back his chair. “I had a police escort drive her into the city. She should be in the waiting room by now. I’ll show her in.”
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
DATE: 7 April
TIME: 1030 hours
I thought I had Gaia under control. I don’t.
It’s snowballing way too fast.
I can’t call on Hera. I can’t call on any of my goddesses. And I can’t turn to my mother as I did when I was a child. God, I miss those days. She made everything right. When I was frightened or confused, she read me stories of the great Greek gods and their heroic feats. Apollo the sun god. Artemis the moon goddess. Their world was my escape.
I miss my youth. It was just the two of us back then. Life had yet to intrude. She taught me so wisely and so well.
She no longer can. I’m being squeezed into a corner from which there’s no escape.
Worse, the demons won’t relent. Each day their shouting grows louder, stronger.
I feel the walls closing in. Sweat is pouring down my face, my body. The morphine can dull the pain, but not the panic.
I’m being crushed on all sides.
Midtown North
New York City
11:05 A.M.
Tina looked like a bewildered kid when Sergeant Erwin showed her in. Her eyes were wide, her stance was rigid, and her gaze was darting everywhere. It reminded Sloane, once again, how young twenty-one really was, and how much Tina had been through.
“Come in and take a seat, Tina.” Bob spoke very gently and kindly to her. “I can offer you water, soda, or coffee. Which would you like?”
“A Coke would be great. Thank you,” she said in a small voice.
Bob nodded, and headed off to get the soda. At that moment, Tina spied Sloane and the relief that swept over her was palpable. “Sloane,” she acknowledged, leaning over the table to greet her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Sloane rose, reached over, and squeezed Tina’s arm. “That’s why I waited. I want to be here for you. But I want you to understand that, technically, you can ask me to leave. This is a law enforcement investigation, and I no longer officially fall into that category. It’s up to you. Just tell me if you’d prefer I go.”
“No. Please stay.” A shaky swallow. “I thought I was pretty strong, but I’m on the verge of losing it.”
“I will stay, and you won’t lose it. You’re strong. Just sit down and take a few deep breaths. I promise, Sergeant Erwin is a great guy. He just wants to catch the scum who attacked you and potentially others—women who weren’t as well trained as you are, and couldn’t escape.” Sloane gestured toward Derek, who’d risen to his feet and was waiting quietly. “This is Special Agent Derek Parker of the FBI. He’s a major part of this investigation, too. I can personally guarantee he won’t bite. He and I worked in the same field office when I was with the Bureau.”
Tina managed a small smile. “Hello, Agent Parker.”
“Nice to meet you, Tina.” Derek shook her hand. “I’m sorry for what you went through. But from what Sloane tells me, your attacker is sorrier. You did some serious damage to his body.”
“Not serious enough.” Tina grimaced. “The cops have checked all the local hospitals. No one with the kinds of injuries I inflicted on him admitted himself.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t need medical attention. It just means he didn’t get it anywhere that would have kept a record of his visit.”
“I didn’t think of that.”
Bob returned with the soda, and they all sat down.
“I know you’ve been through this a dozen times with the local police, but just once more, tell us what happened early Saturday morning,” Bob began.
Tina recounted the entire incident, from when she stopped at the oak tree for her water break, to when her assailant attacked her, to the steps she took to extinguish him as a threat.
“I’m impressed,” Bob said, smiling faintly. “I know some cops that couldn’t retaliate that quickly, at least not without drawing their weapons.” He jotted down a few notes, then continued. “Can you describe the knife he held to your throat? Clearly, it was large enough to injure your shoulder.”
“It was big and intimidating. The blade was at least half a foot long, and broad, too, a couple of inches wide. It was made of thick steel, with a curved edge near the top. The handle was dark, with ridges for the grip. Oh, and it had a narrow vertical piece dividing the handle and the blade. Kind of like a guard to prevent the user from cutting himself when he held it.”
“Sounds like a Bowie,” Derek concluded. “It’s powerful and versatile. The big ones can be as long as swords. And the ones with saw teeth machined into the back side of the blade have been used in the military for decades. A good choice for this Unsub, and an easy knife to come by.”
Tina’s head came up. “That reminds me. I think he was in the military at some time.”
“What makes you say that?”
“When I grabbed his shoulder, I felt a chain around his neck. And when he jerked forward in response to my blows, dog tags fell out of his shirt, dangling from the chain.”
Bob was scribbling notes again. “Could you make out anything on the dog tags?”
“No. It all happened too fast. The whole thing lasted about thirty seconds.”
Derek’s wheels were turning again. “You said he told you to come with him or he’d slit your throat. You also said he muttered some things you couldn’t make out. Was it because he spoke too quietly or because his words were muffled by the mask?”
“Neither. The words he used didn’t sound like English. I don’t know what language they were. The first phrase was something like ‘tai kee.’ He used it when he first came at me. If he were
n’t holding me at knifepoint, I would have assumed he was calling me by someone else’s name.”
“‘Tai kee.’” Bob glanced at Sloane. “You speak, Mandarin. Does that mean anything to you?”
Sloane frowned. “Tai ji means ‘birthmark,’ but that makes no sense in this context. If it’s a Chinese dialect, I wouldn’t recognize it.”
“What else did he say?” Bob asked Tina.
“When I attacked him, he shouted a couple of things. He’s was probably swearing at me.” She squinched up her face, trying to remember. “Bow za was one. And chao ji bei. Oh, and at the end he yelled out, ta ma de.”
“Oh, he was definitely cursing at you,” Derek assured her. “Even I know ta ma de. It means ‘fuck.’ As for bow za, you’re pronouncing it phonetically. It’s biao zhi.” He spelled the English transliteration. “That means ‘bitch.’ Chao ji bei must mean something equally flattering, but I don’t know what. I’ll check with my squad or one of our language analysts on both chao ji bei and tai kee.”
“Since when do you speak Chinese?” Sloane asked in surprise.
“I don’t. I just know how to curse in it.” Derek gave Sloane a half smile, then turned back to Tina. “You said you caught a glimpse of your attacker’s eyes through the holes in his mask. Would you say he looked Asian? And what about his voice—did he sound Asian?”
“No and no.” She shook her head again. “His eyes were round, not almond-shaped. And they were light. So was his skin. I saw his wrist when I broke his knife hold. He was Caucasian. As for his English, it was unaccented. It was also the primary language he used, with the exception of those curses.”
“He could be second- or third-generation American,” Sloane pointed out. “His family could originally be from the Far East.”
“Or he could have been stationed there.” Derek took another belt of water. “The dog tags imply that he served. He’d certainly master curse words that way. What I don’t understand is why was he resorting to using them when his victim—all his victims so far, for that matter—were clearly American.”
“Something else to ask whoever develops a profile on this guy.”
At that moment, Derek’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the display, then rose. “Excuse me for a second,” he said, heading into the far corner of the room.
He punched on the phone, turned his back to the table, and spoke as quietly as possible. “What have you got for me?” he demanded.
At the other end of the phone, Joe Barbados, one of the FBI’s top forensic engineers down in Quantico, hunched forward in his chair. “I’ve been going through all the DVDs, one by one,” he replied. “But I’m primarily concentrating on the footage we have of the exact date and approximate time that Penelope Truman vanished. I’m examining the footage from every angle captured by the four different cameras in that area of Lake Fred.”
“And?”
“And in one of the segments that’s focused on the woods behind the lake, I spotted some lens flare. It seemed out of place because it was coming from the lower half of the frame. So I isolated it and did some tweaking to see what it was or where it was coming from. I can’t be a hundred percent sure, but to me, it looks like a knife. And a large one, at that.”
“Yes,” Derek hissed under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Nice work, Joe. Can you e-mail me a picture or two ASAP?”
“Sure. I’m not completely done with my analysis, but I’ll send you a jpeg of what I have so far, and a final when I’m finished. You’ll have the rough within the hour, and the final by tomorrow morning.”
“Great. Oh, and include the time stamp on it.”
“Done.”
“Thanks.” Derek punched off the phone and rejoined the group. “Sorry about that. What did I miss?”
Sloane edged him a sideways glance. He’d gotten a lead. She could feel it, even though his expression remained unchanged. His adrenaline was pumping. Whoever had called him had given him something solid. But whatever that lead was, she’d have to pry the details out of him later. Clearly, it wasn’t for sharing with everyone in the room—at least not yet.
She turned her attention back to the interview.
Southern New Jersey Medical Center
Trenton, New Jersey
2:30 P.M.
The high school across the street is letting out, students trampling one another on their way to athletic practice or the nearest mall.
No one noticed as I walked in through the emergency room entrance of the hospital. Nurses from the morning shift are finishing up their paperwork and preparing to brief the afternoon shifts when they arrive in a half hour. Everyone is either busily working or champing at the bit to get out. The admitting desk is crowded and the staff looks frantic as they try to process the new patients and direct people to the right areas.
Blend. Be invisible. Act natural. Avoid the security cameras. Push beyond the physical agony and the deafening voices of the demons. Stay focused. Between the maintenance cart and uniform I “borrowed,” I can easily get lost in the crowd.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I look like hell. It’s the pain. It’s making me crazy. Sweat is matting my hair and beading up on my forehead. I look like a junkie or a lunatic. I’m anything but. I’m one of the few sane people left—sane and decent. A man who knows right from wrong.
That’s why I’ve been chosen.
I need that morphine.
Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths. I can do this.
I pluck out my sweatshirt and make sure nothing’s fallen out of the pockets. Reassured, I abandon the cart at the base of the stairwell, and start climbing. I’ve done my homework. So I know where I’m going.
I have to pause at the landing of each floor to gather my strength. Plus, the noise of the demons is so loud, my skull is about to cave in.
Somehow I make it to the fourth floor. The nurses’ station at this low-key wing would have only a few RNs at the desk. Less people, less chance of being discovered.
I had to pick a hospital near the TCNJ campus. I want them to think that what’s about to happen was committed by the same person who attacked Tyche. That I’m nearby, crippled with pain and hiding out as I self-administer my morphine.
By the time the cops get the call, I’ll be miles away, preparing to satisfy the demons, planning the capture of my alternate goddess.
I have enough ketamine. If necessary, I can always get more on the street. But the other drugs…I need more.
Seizing a new cleaning cart from the closet, I shuffle my way down the corridor until I have a view of the nurses’ station. Good. Just as I thought. Two nurses. Both on their computers. Both on the far side of the desk. I can head in the opposite direction without being noticed.
Halfway down the corridor, I spot my victim. An elderly man, either heavily sedated or in a coma, with a respirator by the head of his bed, and no visitors in his room. I leave my cart, walk noiselessly into the room, and calmly disconnect the respirator tube. My action triggers the alarm, and I’m out of the room in a heartbeat.
By the time my cart and I are headed back in the direction from which I started, nurses are yelling “Code Blue” over the sound of the wailing alarm, and every available staff member is racing into the old man’s room. All except one, who’s hurrying toward the nurses’ station.
A medication nurse. She’s wearing an ID tag, and around her neck is the necessary key to the medical cabinet. From the bold-lettered words on the ID tag, I can read that she’s a supervisory RN. I can’t make out her name, nor do I care. She looks like a wrinkled old bulldog, from her stout build and crabby scowl to her arrogant, short-legged waddle. Her patients will be better off without her. So will the staff. Once she’s gone, the chief of staff can promote a worthy, compassionate type to take her place. Someone maternal to protect and care for those in need. As it should be.
I pull on my latex gloves, and watch Nurse Bulldog disappear around back. There’s no doubt where she’s going, or what she’s going
for.
I have only one goal, and nothing is going to interfere with it. I feel no remorse for what I’m about to do. It’s for survival, not for the gods, and not for the demons.
Five minutes, and I’ll be finished and gone.
So will Nurse Bulldog.
I move quickly and silently. An instant later I’m standing a few feet away from the medicine cabinet. Nurse Bulldog is concentrating on unlocking and opening it. I let her. The handle turns, and she pulls open the door. She reaches inside. I glance around. No one’s in sight.
I reach inside my multipocketed sweatshirt and retrieve my trusted knife. In one long stride I cross over to her.
She never hears me. I’m on her before she knows what’s happening. I grab her from behind, slitting her throat and slashing through the carotid artery. She drops to the floor like a thick sack of grain, blood spurting from her neck and pouring around her. The thud of her body is barely audible over the din of the Code Blue alarm.
Upon fleeting inspection, I’m pleased to see that my sweatshirt and custodial uniform look to be spared. Only my gloves and knife are bloody. And no one will be finding those.
I put away my knife and step over her body. It’s quite a challenge to avoid the growing pool of blood now spreading across the floor. But I’m careful to leave no footprints. I retrieve the black plastic bag from my pocket and load it with what I need. Morphine, Demerol, Nembutal, fentanyl, and OxyContin, plus a handful of syringes. Then I step over her body once again. I peel off my gloves as I peek around the corner.
I toss the bag onto my cart, and walk calmly toward the stairwell. The halls are now silent. Obviously, the staff did whatever they could without the medication Nurse Bulldog went to get. That disturbs me. Did the old man die? He didn’t deserve to. As I pass by, I hear snatches of conversation from the staff members exiting his room. They’re upset, but it’s because the respirator was tampered with. The old man is alive. I’m greatly relieved.
Reaching the stairwell, I abandon the cart, grab my bag, and force myself to hustle down the steps, cursing Tyche for the agony in my groin. Finally, I reach the ground floor and reclaim my original cart. I push it to the back of the hospital and out the quieter rear entrance. I unbutton my uniform, stuff it in the cart, and take off with my black plastic bag.
